RP:A Harvest Gift
Part of the Global Purge Arc
Sacred Grove
A grove of young trees stand in a circle at the top of a circular barrow, creating a clearing in the center, in the middle of which stands an old oak tree, perhaps as ancient as the barrow itself. Before that tree stands an altar of piled stones, heaped up in a rectangular shape about the length of a man, and half as wide, and just as high. The top is dominated by a large, roughly rectangular worn smooth by running water, with a naturally worn hole near the center. Another, smaller altar stands nearby, set low to the ground with a stone-lined pit in the center, where a fire burns. Priests attend the altars, robed in white, barefoot, and with their heads covered by loose white cloth caps. There is a hushed air in the grove, and no voices are raised above a whisper; it is a holy place.
Venturil’s army stands in ranks, surrounding the barrow where the sacred grove stands. They darken the landscape, the presence of so many of the living scattering the perpetual mist of the dead. There is a clear avenue between them, along which a small group moves, led by a priest in white. The king of Venturil strides at the center, towering over his companions. He is dressed, as ever, in his polished mithril hauberk, but instead of any of the rest of his armor he is dressed simply, with white leggings and leather boots. An unadorned band of gold encircles his head, matched by the multitude of rings that cover on his arms, carved and worked with remarkable skill. Those with him are the nobles of the people, æþelingas from the Northern, Eastern, and Western Kuronii people, as well as representatives from the Riddarnir to the west, and picked officers from the army. As they approach the grove, the barefoot priest moves on ahead, while the others stop and remove their shoes, even the king himself.
Gerik stands at the ready amongst the ranks, having heeded the King's call some several hours ago. He is flanked by several of his subordinates who appear just as vigilant and ready as he, carefully watching their Lord's approach. Gerik gives them a firm nod and they all bow in reverence when Eboric and his entourage pass by, as do many other officers and their men when their Lord continues to make his approach toward the altar. Gerik, being an officer, has seen much evidence of mobilization in the preceding weeks, but even he is not entirely certain of the reason for today's gathering. He turns his eyes toward the King, silently anticipating what is likely to be a grand proclamation and order.
Once upon the hallowed ground, the raised position easily visible to at least the majority of the troops, the priests begin their rites, chanting in the most ancient tongue of the Kuronii people, calling upon the ancestral gods to attend, to witness the sacrifice about to be performed. Along the sacred pathway between the standing troops comes another group, this one much larger. Bound hand and foot, hundreds of prisoners shuffle forward, escorted by elite warriors armed to the teeth, bared blades and drawn bows held at the ready to swiftly exterminate any who dare to attempt an escape. The prisoners are the Preklek troops, until now held in the prison camp south of the city. Ropes encircle their necks, holding them to each other. At the forefront of this miserable column are the war leaders of the captured troops, denoted by the ragged uniforms they still wear, soiled and torn from the long months of captivity. Under the watchful eye of the king, they are brought up to the sacred howe and positioned so that one stands below each tree in the grove, while the last, the leader of the invasion force, is brought to the altar itself, where he is forced to his knees. Now Eboric steps forward, standing before the altar as the priests step aside, conceding the ritual to the sacral king. In a voice long trained to carry across a battlefield, the werebear speaks, invoking the names of the gods first, repeating each name three times, after which he continues. "Hallowed beings, spirits of the land, honored ancestors, be with us! Accept now the sacrifice of our enemy, the invader whose very presence fouls our sacred world! Thy aid we seek to cleanse the stain from the land; with the blood of the enemy to make the earth hāl!" Upon finishing this bede, the king reaches out to take the heavy axe from the altar, an old blade, engraved with runes. Without any further warning, Eboric turns, swinging his arm at the same time so that, with all the weight and force of his body behind it, the axe scythes through the air to strike the kneeling Preklek in the neck. A spray of blood jets out as the head rolls free, tumbling to the earth that swiftly drinks the crimson drops. On that cue, warriors standing near the other Preklek officers haul on the ends of ropes, hoisting the prisoners into the air by their necks, their horrified cries cut off by the constricting ropes. Solemnly, the priests approach the decapitated sacrifice, collecting the blood in a carved wooden bowl. Dipping his thumb in the liquid, the high priest uses it to trace lines and dots on the war king's face, carefully drawing the ancestral designs of war. Thus decorated, Eboric turns once more to the gathered troops, while the priest annoints the æþelingas in a similar manner. "My people! Warriors of the reunited Kuronii tribe! I have brought you here from the East, from the North, to join with those of our people who settled here so long ago! Together we are strong, above and beyond the strength of other nations. It is our duty, then, to rid the whole land of this evil race, these outlaws who have no place here! Wet your blades in the blood of the enemy, soak the blessed earth beneath us, that our ancestors might know that we ride to war!" A cheer arises at the king's words, and the officers of the army move forward, ready to finish the remaining Preklek, who begin to cry out in terror.
Gerik’s stare hardens as the bound preklek are brought forth, instinctively gripping at the handle of a long trusted axe that lies at his hip. The mere sight of these vile lizards conjures many intense memories and emotions within the Captain; so many years ago these beings spewed from their portal south of the city and brought a sudden and vicious assault upon his home, only contained after numerous casualties and kept confined to the wastelands by the sheer might that the former archmage king possessed and promised. Gerik is scarcely a man driven by emotion, but the mere prospect of wiping the preklek from this plane forever summons a raised fist and a victorious cry to join or even tower over the growing chorus; the terrified cries from these soon silenced creatures draws not a drop of regret nor a wince at their terrible end. “Our Lord is right!” He shouts, “These vile beings deserve not a shred of mercy! Many years ago these beasts ravaged Venturil and showed us none, so they shall reap the terrible fate they have sown! They are not of this world nor should they retain a place in it!” Others in the crowd that lived to see the preklek raids join in with Gerik’s rebuke of these lizard beings, raising blades and adding to the impressive din, a harrowing final sight for the remaining preklek as the precious last gasps of breath leave their lungs, strangled by the noose or cut down in savage strokes from the officer’s chosen weapons.
Eboric looks on with a feral smile as the remaining prisoners are sacrificed, with every soldier waiting their turn to wet their blades in blood, while some even use it to stripe their faces. "It has begun!" Eboric yells, his voice carrying over the screams and cheers. "We will drive them to the very portal to their world, and there we will end the threat forever!" He gestures, and the ealdormen step closer to hear. "Oswald, you will go east to the Xalious range, and then north, sweeping the mountains there. Eafa, to you falls the northern part of Sage Forest and Larket. Ingild, you will take your men east to Cenril, and purge the land surrounding it. Folcwine, to southern Sage. Viglund, you will search the desert. Aelfgar, Runolf, and Raedwald, you will remain here to protect the city. Keep those snakes in Chartsend bottled up. If they set one foot out of line, just crush them. We have no time for their foolishness. Harold, Sighelm, Tostig, Halfdan, and Aela, you will accompany me to Gualon, to seal the portal. Constantine and the Murum Mors will join us." He looks around the group and grins again. "You have your orders. Do not fail."
The raucous crowd of warriors continue their cheers for some time until Eboric's self appointed ealdormen begin to take selected squads to join their expeditions. Gerik stands at the ready with his men until Oswald approaches, giving the superior a firm nod. "Gerik," He begins, "You and your men will accompany me. You have experience with treks throughout the Xalious mountains. I trust it will come in handy." The words carry the air of a demand rather than any inquiry. The Captain, of course, nods and gives certain affirmation. "Very well, Gerik. We shall rest this eve and leave promptly at dawn. Be certain you are ready...you know well that these beasts are a tenacious lot that will not go away quietly." Gerik gives his understanding and rounds his men, retreating back to Venturil for a night of rest before this campaign to cull the preklek from this realm begins.